


The Maenad

by Seaneta



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Community: hannibalkink, Creepy Hannibal, Episode: s03e07 Digestivo, M/M, Masturbation, Missing Scene, Voyeurism, Will Graham Helps Himself (kinda)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-12 23:18:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4498518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seaneta/pseuds/Seaneta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal witnesses a very private moment. Will realizes only after the fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Maenad

**Author's Note:**

> Quick little thing I wrote in response to a prompt.  
> Voracious should have its fourth chapter by tomorrow afternoon:)

 

He was lying against the window pane, like a toy with its string pulled, legs languorously stretched on the bed as the back of his head rested on the sill. Hair a riot of dark curls and droplets of sweat, Will’s bottom lip disappeared between his teeth, cheeks misted with a brilliant scarlet.

Will Graham was an uncomfortable man. He feigned leisure when reclining on a stranger’s chair just to avoid shifting and fidgeting throughout the meeting, interview, meal. He couldn’t stand eye contact, the intimacy it allowed with an outsider too revealing. The clumsy smiles, forged self-assurance, even his speech was strained, tight, his words chosen carefully and with care, as though each syllable was sandpaper on his tongue.

A languid hand pinched the corner of a blanket, tossing it so cool air could ease the growing inferno inside him. Eyelids smooth, lashes falling just above cheekbones, the sharp exhale made his hazel eyes pop and focus on the sparse falling snowflakes just outside. A hand not directly dedicated to the cause left his side, snaking over his waist and into the juncture of his thighs. His body tensed, muscles contracting, legs stretching out even more. A moan, soft and sudden, was hushed as teeth came down to rake across his lip again.

Will Graham was a man of walls instead, closely guarded and awfully thick walls, ones Hannibal Lecter enjoyed cracking and glimpsing over. Day by day, session after session in the office, he got to see more of this enigma that crawled its way from a Louisiana bayou, and studied Will. He tried particularly subtle ways at making the man comfortable; and slowly his suits began to match the plaid in Will’s wardrobe, occasionally their dinners together involved traditional New Orleans ingredients, at times even spoiling the man by happening to bake beignets before early morning meetings. Will was still a shell however, encasing a side that liked to indulge in the more primal pleasures of life; laughing, relaxing, loving, _slaughtering_ \--and Hannibal knew that scared Will, that it made working for Jack that much harder. Every time he dived into a killer’s mind, the profiler was scared of taking something back with him. Those walls, it seemed, never gave way.

Until now.

Hannibal watched, a longing itching in his own slacks, as Will honed his inner eroticism and moaned softly for the first time without muting the sound. The rich cry was deafening, hitting the perfect pitch and length, forcing a roll of heat over Hannibal in spite of the cold. Will spread just legs just a few millimeters apart, but for Hannibal it was near pornographic proportions as he had never imagined seeing Will so desperate for his own pleasure, so carnal while in the pursuit of a liberation.

A tugging sensation in his gut, best described as green and sickly, made Hannibal’s lips bend in mild envy, not particularly enjoying this unfair situation; Will’s rejection had stirred this magnificent incident of vulnerability and passion, and yet it was the direct _lack_ of Hannibal’s presence that had caused it. Will’s feet peeked out from the blanket’s edge, small toes occasionally squeezing together at exceptionally rough strokes, his nose flaring and mouth opening in a small gasp.

Will was undone, unraveled, a tightly knit ball unstitched into a mess of wanton lust and desire. Like the finest of maenads, Will launched himself into an euphoric frenzy that he showed to no one, because he trusted no one to see him like this. So comfortably vulnerable, swept away in his primal need while mistakenly thinking he no longer had eyes always watching.

The walls were broken down; Will _needed_ this. He needed ecstasy to compensate for all the aches his body was feeling, he needed the satisfaction to consume him instead. For too long Will felt the tension, endured the pain, and, after voicing to Hannibal what his head had been screaming at him to do for years, it seemed to be his heart at the forefront now.

A small cloud of vapor was visible in the cold, though Hannibal didn’t acknowledge his lips parting in a serene sort of awe.

Will lifted his head up from the window sill when his hips bucked on their own accord, gently swaying the bed frame, and he began to touch himself more boldly. A shuddering breath left him as he worked himself, eyes staring listlessly at the ceiling before taking a quick, fluttering glimpse at the chair beside his bed. Immediately, Will tossed his head back in a new height of ecstasy, eyes rolling just before squeezing shut. The obscene, just about animalistic whines escaping him would make the most experienced harlot take notes.

He hadn’t intended to linger longer than a glance. But it had been much more than a glimpse. In fact, it was more along scopophilia grounds, though he didn’t see Will so much as an object as he did a fantastical Greek deity, his devotion to one consciousness was enough to make him feel the temptation himself. He hadn’t meant to pry, to be so greedy, but when one practices self-indulgence all their life, it is difficult to control such an impulse. It was the first performance Hannibal couldn’t find fault with; the best shows were usually the ones not orchestrated for an audience, after all.

And Hannibal couldn’t deny himself the climax of the concert, not when he knew he wouldn’t like the finale. Especially the view of it from the backseat of a patrol car.

Will’s skin was almost shimmering as evening light fell through the window, sweat dampening the shirt Hannibal had dressed him in earlier. Will’s hand encased his length, making a perfect C-shape as he switched between a teasingly slow and shamelessly rushed rhythm. Heated boxers were pulled down just enough for his hands to stroke himself and caress his balls, fingers roaming over his inner thigh to pinch his skin and create a reaction of tiny spasms in his muscles. Will was practically sobbing, bent over himself, desperate to drain every bit of pleasure, every bit of desire for Hannibal out of the experience he could manage.

“Ha-ahh-” Will was past coherency in his fit of ecstasy, panting with his mouth open and eyes locked behind lids. His sweetly pink cheeks matched his neck, the shudders of his hips growing more and more frequent. Will’s free hand hovered just above his arousal, as though so consumed in a fantasy he meant to grip someone’s head between his legs. Will was imagining company. Hannibal outwardly preened at the insight.

Another loud but slow whine, and the hand suddenly reached to his side at the nightstand, quickly plucking a tissue and cupping it over his coral-colored tip. Will suddenly arched into his hand, voicing his release for anyone, for Hannibal, to hear. The reaction would have had Hannibal applauding the performance, standing with overwhelming emotion and hoping for an encore, if it wasn’t for Will’s confidence of never seeing him again that started all of this.

His climaxing baritone was particularly low, audible through the glass and reverberating within Hannibal. The moan was deep and lost in lust -- _for you, for us_ , Will’s voice taunted, _for something I never wanted_ \-- Even within Hannibal’s mind, Will could still break his heart. He never saw Will Graham so willingly scatterbrained, on the brink of insanity brought on by a surge of emotions that demanded a physical release. He was a slave to his want, it essential to get the lingering yearning out of his system just as quickly as Hannibal had made the exit from his house.

Will was still panting, his length twitching as release kept flowing out of him in quick surges. The disheveled appearance made for a very erotic illustration for Hannibal, deciding he would love to see Will coming off a powerful session, enjoying his afterglow, much more often. A mix of immense pride and excitement filled Hannibal by making Will this way, feeling a warm shiver run through him and settle beneath his pants, but the fact this only took place because of Will’s adamant closure on their relationship hindered any gratification. Will was done with him. And this was his own way of getting it out of his system. How symbolic.

 

The tissues were thrown away, the garbage bag taken out of its can and tied in a quick knot. Will tossed the black bag of disgrace in the corner of his barren home, leaving the room with a limp and few stumbles. He would shower, think himself over this particular arc of his life, attempt a transformation back to a time before Hannibal. Such a shame the doctor knew it was just a charade, the evidence clear on his hands. So to speak.

Time passed, and headlights soon blinded Will’s front windows and cars flooded the dirt road just outside.

"He's gone, Jack." Will opened his front door, feeling the ghosts of his dogs pushing passed him.

He didn’t need a crowd of SUV’s in his yard, didn’t want Jack wasting his time, and most importantly; Will wanted to stop thinking about Hannibal Lecter as soon as possible. Let Jack take care of the estranged killer, he refused to have any involvement; not after Italy, Muskrat farm, his shameful episode inside the already souring house (plans to move, maybe somewhere warm, were turning gears inside his head). Will, back to wearing his glasses and dearly missed flannel, stood on his empty porch. He stared at Jack, not bothered by the flurries of snow, waiting for him and the unit of agents to leave. He was ready to just forget everything. He moved on the moment a shameful warmth spilled into his hand.

“Jack. I’m here.”

Jack turned to Will’s backyard, headlights shining on a man with his hands already up. Will remained on the porch, letting only his head shift to the approaching figure and nothing else. A new kind of pink moved across his face, drowning him, and though it could be excused on account of the cold or his injuries, the look in Hannibal’s eyes told him otherwise. They were dark, seeing through Will and directly into his skull, knowing his secrets. Will bit his lip at the implication, but feeling recent nick marks didn't help. 

_Yes, Will. I never left._

“You finally caught the Chesapeake Ripper, Jack.” He kneeled, facing the Special Agent but his eyes stayed locked on Will’s, steady and deliberate. A night’s gust swept by the other man and toward Hannibal, demanding him to smell the remnants of Will’s pornographic episode, teasing him with an enticement worse than Eve and her apple.

“I didn’t catch you, you surrendered.”

Hannibal kept his gaze on Will. “I want you to know exactly where I am.”

Will was lightheaded, both his face and ears hot despite the weather. Air escaped his lungs, chest tight.

“And where you can always find me.”

Jack tore his eyes from Hannibal, trailing them up to Will questionably, not quite sure if he wanted to know what was going on.

Will’s face pinched at the words, them striking a cord just as Hannibal intended. Even a few yards away, with the night’s curtain shading Will’s features, he could still see realization donning on the man like a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar. Will had lied, and now Hannibal would make sure he always had the temptation. And whether it took three days or three years, Hannibal would look forward to seeing him again.

_Thank you for the parting gift, Will._

“Cuff him.” Jack broke whatever silent conversation the two men were having. Judging by the look on Will’s face, Jack would rather live in ignorance. He motioned for the armored team. “Put him in my car.”

Jack, the agents, they were all just background noise compared to the weight of Hannibal’s gaze. He had seen Will at his most exposed, saw the wickedness he took delight in, not just _tolerating_ as he so claimed. His lie had been effective. His actions not so much.

Will broke the stare, feigning indifference but miserably failing, and made a hasty retreat back inside. He’d start packing tonight.

Hands hoisted Hannibal back up, led him toward Jack’s car, opened the door and motioned for him to get inside. They weren’t rough, were not violent because Hannibal was willing and surprisingly gracious. But his eyes were fixed on Will’s front door, frozen, following the shadow inside.

Hannibal had told Will what he truly felt. That Will delighted in wickedness, but then criticized himself for the delight. That was the final strike, it seemed, as Will immediately rebuked and gave him a firm goodbye. Will was done. Done with their games, done with conversations, done with any kind of relationship, whether it be a friendship or one founded as adversaries. Will refused any sort of continued connection, and so Hannibal made sure they’d have a bond most intimate. He’d be looking forward to their reunion. And in the meantime, writing dear William letters would have to suffice. He could already imagine the man in front of his fireplace, a hand holding the parchment while his other was someplace else.

 

 


End file.
